TheScotandI






Six



His head was locked in a vise. His stomach was heaving. His chest was so tight, he could hardly draw in a breath. He was in a dark place, a cold, foul-smelling dungeon, perhaps, or a windowless cell. Water. He could feel it running in rivulets down the back of his neck, under his collar and down his spine. The floor beneath him was swaying, rattling, disintegrating.
He had to get out of here before it was too late.
A man’s voice carried to him. “Listen! Did ye hear that? Riders! They’ll be out lookin’ for the Hepburn. I knew it was a mistake to bring him with us.”
A woman’s voice responded. “We could not leave him there to die. That must have been a mighty blow you gave him, Dugald. He needs medical attention.”
Dugald made a rude sound. “His head is rock hard. It would take more than a dint from my fist to put a dent in it. And if he needs medical attention, why did we no leave him at the White Stag?”
“I don’t trust those people. Well, you know what kind of place the White Stag is. All that interests them is money. They would have robbed him and mayhap finished him off, yes, and I would be blamed for it.”
Dugald clicked his tongue. “Lassie, ye have more imagination than is good for ye.”
Alex ground his teeth. He knew exactly where he was now and what had happened to him. He wasn’t in a foul-smelling dungeon. He was in one of the smugglers’ carts, lying facedown on a bed of hay, and the reason it was so dark was because something—a tarpaulin?—was stretched out above him, no doubt to conceal him if they should be stopped by a policeman. His head wasn’t in a vise but ached from the blow that had felled him. He assumed that the girl’s companion was the rider Gavin had followed. Dugald and the girl were in the box guiding this one-horse contraption on a rickety road to God alone knew where.
When he tried to move, he discovered that he was spread-eagled on the hard floor, and his wrists were loosely bound to opposite sides of the cart. His legs, however, were free. By rolling a little, he could tell that they’d taken away his gun but not the coins that jingled in his pocket. Knowing that he was in no condition to fight his way free yet, he merely used the heel of his boot to lift an edge of the tarpaulin that was stretched out like a canopy above him. Daylight filtered through the opening he’d made. Something else came through—a pool of rainwater that doused his trousers. He bit back a furious oath and let the tarpaulin fall into place. At this rate, he’d die of pneumonia before they reached their destination.
The girl said, “Pull up under those trees, and I’ll check on him.”
“Check on him? Ye did that not ten minutes ago.”
“He has been out for hours. I think he may have suffered a concussion.”
“All the better for us when we unload him in Inver. Ye know what will happen when he comes to himself? He’ll start singing like a boiling kettle. I may have to thump him again.”
Alex was beginning to take a thorough dislike to this Dugald fellow.
“This is not a joking matter, Dugald.”
No response from Dugald this time.
Alex could tell that the cart had changed direction. A minute or two later, it stopped. Evidently, they were going to check on him. He wasn’t going to put up a fight, not if they were taking him to Inver. It was a hamlet just off the main road and only a few miles upstream from Balmoral. There would be people there to help him round up these miscreants and march them to the nearest tollbooth.
When the tarpaulin was pulled back, Alex kept his eyes closed and his muscles relaxed. Cool, competent fingers felt for his pulse. “His pulse is strong,” she said.
“What did I tell ye?”
“But he has a lump on his head the size of an apple, and he has taken a soaking from the rain.”
“What are ye doing?” Dugald asked, not alarmed but not pleased either.
“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m covering him with my cloak to keep him warm.”
“But that’s my cloak! I gave it to ye to keep you warm and dry.”
“I’ll get you another.” Her voice was light and teasing. “Dugald,” she softly remonstrated, “you know you wouldn’t leave a dog out in this weather.” She touched the back of her hand to Alex’s cheek. “He’s not feverish, but the sooner we get help for him, the easier I’ll feel.”
The tarpaulin was pulled over him, and Alex was left to reflect on the conversation he had overheard. The woman seemed genuinely anxious about him. They were going out of their way to make sure that he had medical attention. What was he supposed to make of that?
His thoughts strayed. The warmth of her body clung to her cloak. He inhaled its scent, and every breath he took seemed to burn his lungs. It wasn’t an unpleasant sensation, far from it. When he moved, the cloak moved with him, wrapping around him like a silken web.
And he was caught.
The vision that emerged behind his eyes was of the woman as he’d seen her in the White Stag after he’d forcibly stripped her: skin like pearls; small, plump breasts; and long shapely legs.
His head still ached, his muscles were cramped, but that did not prevent the sudden wave of lust that stormed through him. He fought it off, and another vision emerged: Master Thomas, her alter ego.
Thomas wasn’t fearless, far from it, but he was as brave as any man he knew. Brave, vulnerable, and in his own way, formidable. He liked the boy immensely.
Bloody hell! What was he thinking? The blow to his head must have addled his brains. The girl and the boy were one and the same person. If one was treacherous, so was the other. She was an enigma, and he was a code breaker. He was going to break her down until she revealed all her secrets.
He mustn’t soften toward her. She didn’t care what happened to him. It was her own neck she wanted to save. If she left him to die, she would be blamed for it. That was what she had told her henchman, Dugald.
Gavin? Where was he? Dugald must have given him the slip, but Gavin would know, when he had not turned up at their rendezvous, that he, Alex, must be in trouble. Gavin would come looking for him.
And where was his muse? It should be showing him a way out, not tempting him with lewd thoughts. Hell and damnation, how much longer before they reached Inver?
 
 
The cart had stopped moving. He raised his head and listened. Horses stamping and neighing, the jangle of harness, men’s voices. The tarpaulin was removed, and someone untied the knots on his bonds. Alex feigned unconsciousness, fearing that he would get another thump on the head if he tried anything. When nothing happened, he flexed his stiff fingers, fisted them, then rolled onto his back and cleared the cart with an almighty heave. His eyes weren’t accustomed to the light, and he swayed on his feet.
“Here, Kenneth,” said a voice Alex didn’t recognize, “gie me a hand with the poor man.”
A friendly hand steadied him, Alex blinked to clear his vision and took a moment to get his bearings. He was in the stable yard of a small inn surrounded by a group of stable hands. He didn’t take time to answer any of the questions that flew at him. He was scanning the stable yard and its environs for a sign of the boy or Dugald. There was nothing.
“I’m Jock Ogg,” the man holding his elbow said, “the proprietor of this alehouse. Och, but you’ll soon come to yourself. Come away in and get warm. A fall from a horse is no laughing matter.”
Alex had already come to himself and was impatient to go after the girl. “Where are they?” he demanded. “The man and the boy? Which way did they go?”
Mr. Ogg frowned and shook his head. “There was no man, only a boy, and he rode off to fetch the doctor. You were lucky you didna break your neck in the fall. No one who knows the moors would dream of jumping blind over a stone dike. You never can tell what is on the other side.”
So that was the story she’d told them, that he’d taken a tumble from his horse. But how had she managed to disappear so quickly?
Mr. Ogg was still talking, but Alex had stopped listening. His mind was working like lightning. She’d said that she would get medical attention for him, but he doubted that she’d gone for the doctor. Dropping him off at this small country alehouse among friendly yokels was the only medical attention he was likely to receive. She was mounted. He’d bet his last farthing that Dugald was mounted, too, Where had they got the horses?
“The lad was mounted, you say?”
“Not when he arrived. He brought you in on the cart, but a Highland pony was tied to the back. He was that upset that he told us very little before he went haring off. The nearest doctor is in Ballater, so it will be some time before the lad returns. Now come along in and have a bite to eat while ye wait. It wouldna hurt to brush off your clothes and tidy yourself.” Mr. Ogg chuckled. “I think the cart you borrowed must have carried a load of peat at one time or another. So—”
“I need a horse,” Alex said, breaking into Ogg’s monologue. “You hire out horses, don’t you?”
“Aye, but are ye sure you’re well enough to ride?”
“I’m well enough.”
The man called Kenneth cut in, “Have ye no heard about the trouble up at Balmoral?”
“I’ve heard.”
“Well, ye won’t get far. They’ve set up roadblocks on all the roads from Braemar to Aboyne and are questioning everybody who tries to pass. We’ve all been warned to stay off the roads unless we have a very good reason to be on them.”
“Roadblocks?” Things were beginning to look up. The girl was too canny to be caught in a roadblock, but it would suit his purposes. She couldn’t move freely. She and her cohort shouldn’t be too difficult to track. “I’ll take my chances. I’m known up at the castle. That’s where I want to go.”
He was swaying on his feet, not so much from the punch from Dugald’s hefty fist, but because he’d had so little to eat in the last twenty-four hours. He stayed only long enough to satisfy his hunger and thirst, then he was up doing again. In short order, he was mounted and making his way east toward the castle. He hoped he would come to a roadblock. The men there would be on his side, and he’d soon form a posse to hunt the girl down. He had a good idea where she would make for. She’d make for the inn at Braemar where he’d first come across young Thomas. This was surely the route she’d planned to escape her pursuers. Beyond Braemar there was nothing but moors and mountains except for one track going south to Pitlochry, then on to Perth.
She’d be easy to catch on the barren moors, but he hoped to catch her long before that.
 
 
There was a barrier up ahead, a farmer’s wagon blocking the road. He’d come to a roadblock. Alex touched his heels to his mount’s sides, and the horse bounded forward.
There were only four men at the barricade, and though they weren’t a cheerful lot, they were pleasant enough until he told them his name. In the next instant, their expressions went from shock to belligerence, and four pistols were raised and pointed straight at him.
“You’re to come with me, sir,” said the policeman in charge. He couldn’t have been more than twenty. “Colonel Foster would like a word with you.”
Alex didn’t like Foster any more than Dickens did. The colonel had responsibility for the soldiers, and he was highly conscious of the chain of command. But he wasn’t in command of Alex or Dickens. Their section chief was Commander Durward, and in his absence they reported to one another.
“What’s this about?” Alex asked.
“I couldn’t say, sir. All I know is that Colonel Foster would like a word with you.”
Alex looked at each man in turn. Boys, he thought, and still wet behind the ears. The guns that were pointed at him, however, were just as lethal whether they were in the hands of striplings or veterans.
He tried again. “I don’t report to Colonel Foster but to Mr. Dickens.”
The officer in charge shrugged. “I’m just following orders, sir.”
Something was seriously wrong. He could feel it in the fine hairs on the back of his neck. They were practically standing on end.
“Fine,” he said, “then take me to the colonel.”
The officer in charge seemed relieved at Alex’s response and designated two of his companions to escort him to the castle. They fell in on either side of him, and the barrier was moved to allow them to pass.
As they jogged along, thoughts of Foster and the girl quietly slipped away, yet his mind was crystal clear. At first, he hardly knew what was happening. All he felt was a presence: Gavin. He did not possess his brother’s gift. He could not put thoughts into people’s minds as Gavin could. So what was Gavin trying to tell him? Listen . . .
There were no words. All he knew was that he was riding into danger and that Gavin was there.
 
 
The young policemen who delivered Alex to Foster’s office lost no time in making their escape. And who could blame them? The colonel radiated all the warmth of an ice-berg, not to mention that two stern-faced soldiers in Highland battle dress were stationed on either side of the door.
As soon as the policemen left, one of the soldiers ordered Alex to raise his arms, then proceeded to search him for concealed weapons.
“He’s unarmed, sir,” the soldier told Foster.
Foster gestured to the chair on the other side of his desk. “Take a seat, Hepburn.”
Alex complied, his gaze never faltering from the man on the other side of the desk. Foster was in his early fifties, red-haired, red-faced, and with great beefy hands. He was also as thick as a plank, and in common with other stupid people who had risen to a position of authority on the strength of their years of service, he tended to be a bit of a bully.
“Shouldn’t Dickens be here?” Alex asked mildly. “I’m under instructions to report only to him.”
The colonel beamed at him. “Oh, that’s very good, Hepburn, but not good enough. We have a witness, you see.”
“A witness to what?” Alex kept his tone polite.
“To the murder of Chief Inspector Dickens,” replied the colonel.
“What?”
Foster repeated what he’d said.
Alex stared at the other man without really seeing him. His mind was numb with horror. He was remembering how much he liked and trusted Dickens. He had risen through the ranks of the police on merit alone. In another year, he was going to retire with his wife and live the life of a country gentleman.
As his mind began to clear, he looked at Foster and wanted to choke him. He was in charge for now, and he was relishing his newfound powers.
“Tell me how it happened,” he said, breaking into Foster’s harangue.
“Don’t play games, Hepburn. You know how it happened. You and your brother are in this together. He stabbed Dickens in the back with a letter opener that he found on Dickens’s desk, then you helped your brother escape. But we caught him, and now we’ve caught you.”
“My brother?” Alex demanded angrily. “My brother doesn’t even know Dickens. Why would he want to kill him?”
The colonel slapped his beefy hands on the flat of the desk. His eyes were bulging, and he was breathing hard. “Because he was part of the plot to kill the queen. I presume Dickens became suspicious, whatever, and your brother killed him. We have witnesses, so don’t think you can argue your way out of this. He murdered Dickens, then you procured horses to spirit him away. That makes you an accomplice, Hepburn.”
Alex gave a mirthless laugh and shook his head. “You’ve got it all wrong. My brother was assisting me. Where is he? What have you done with him?”
The colonel linked his fingers and squeezed them tightly together, a very telling sign, in Alex’s opinion. Rage was turning Foster’s face purple. “Your brother,” he said, “is in solitary confinement. Why don’t you make things easy for him and easier for yourself? Tell us what we want to know, and we’ll leave him alone. Until we hang him, of course.”
Alex resisted the urge to spring at the other man and break his neck. He steepled his fingers and forced a superior smile. “You’re getting ahead of yourself, Foster,” he said. “I don’t report to you. Commander Durward is my chief. I’ll report to him and to no one else. I presume you have sent a telegram to Whitehall informing them of our situation?”
“I’m in charge here!” roared Foster. He was sucking air through his teeth. “You got away with insubordination with Durward, but you damn well won’t get away with it with me.”
He squeezed his linked fingers till they showed white. “This is what I think happened,” he said. “Your brother was part of a plot to murder the queen. He didn’t know about our decoy queen. His shot went wild and hit one of the guests, a Mr. Ramsey, to be exact. Maybe you knew what your brother was going to do and maybe you didn’t, but from the moment he fired that shot, you chose him over us. You made up a story about a blond-haired woman. However, when I talked to Mr. Ramsey this morning, he said that he did not see her. I don’t believe she exists. Dickens became suspicious. Your brother stabbed him to death, then you made your escape.”
Alex’s voice was terse with anger. “You’re out of your mind!”
Foster suddenly thumped the flat of the desk with his clenched hand. “So tell me, Agent Hepburn, where in hell have you been? And don’t waste my time with fairy tales. There was no blond woman taking potshots at the queen. You didn’t pursue her, as your brother wants us to believe. You were running away.”
Alex kept his mouth shut.
He didn’t want the girl to fall into the hands of this unscrupulous opportunist who didn’t care whom he crushed to get to the top. Foster wouldn’t make allowances for Thomas’s youth either.
Thomas? Who in blazes was Thomas? Alex had to keep reminding himself that Thomas and the girl were one and the same person, and the girl was an enigma.
“You had better tell me what you know,” said Foster, “or I’ll make things very unpleasant for you.”
“I’ll tell you for the last time,” replied Alex in a bored voice, “I have special clearance. When Durward returns, I’ll report to him.”
His words acted on the colonel as he hoped they would. “Teach him a lesson in manners,” Foster told his guards.
They were big-fisted, heavyset men, but for all that, Alex knew that he could disable them in a fight. They hadn’t been taught the tricks of an assassin’s trade as he had. He didn’t want to disable them. He wanted them to take him to his brother so that he could devise a way to get Gavin out of the castle. The only way that was going to happen was if he took a beating and convinced the colonel that he was in no condition to escape.
He came at the soldiers as though he were a gentleman boxer trained to follow the Marquess of Queensbury rules. The soldiers laughed at him, as well they might, but he got in a few punches before he allowed them to do much damage. The fist in his solar plexus drove the air from his lungs, and he keeled over and lay writhing and groaning on the floor.
Only then did Foster get up from his desk and come to stand over him. “You see here, gentlemen,” he said, “the best that Her Majesty’s Secret Service has to offer, God help us,” and he kicked Alex in the back, hard. “A stint in the army is what these glamour boys need. Put him in the nursery with his brother.”
The kick in the back had Alex writhing in earnest this time. He felt dizzy, disoriented, and horribly nauseated.
They hauled him up and supported him by linking their arms under his, then they dragged him away.
 
 
Mahri wanted to put as many miles between herself and the Hepburn as fast as she possibly could. They were hampered by the roadblocks that forced them to keep to the trees—the great forests of Scots pines that marched like an army over the slopes. It gave them excellent cover but slowed their progress. They’d gone only four miles, and it was another four to go before they reached Braemar. She was tired, she was hungry, and her spirits flagged. She was still thinking of the Hepburn, wondering whether he had recovered from his concussion or whether, contrary to Dugald’s opinion, he was sinking into a coma.
According to Dugald, the Hepburn . . .
He shouldn’t be called “the Hepburn” because he wasn’t the chief of his clan. Mr. Hepburn was all that he was entitled to. Dugald had elevated him to a chieftain as a mark of respect. A warrior, Dugald called him, basing his judgment on what she had told him of her encounter with the man. He’d even laughed when she’d told him about the spanking he had administered. And she’d thought Dugald would be on her side!
She didn’t think of the Hepburn as a warrior so much as a worthy opponent. A gentle warrior, perhaps. An honorable warrior, certainly. She could vouch for that. When he’d stripped her of her boy’s clothes and discovered that she was a female, he hadn’t tried to seduce her.
But he’d wanted to.
Just thinking about his expression when he’d seen her naked made her toes curl. At the time, she’d known real fear. Would she ever forget the way his eyes had darkened when he’d captured her in his stare? She’d thought rape, violence, a forced seduction. Then he’d turned into a bad-tempered slave master and started finding fault with her.
A smile flickered at the corners of her mouth.
Her smile gradually faded. She would never see him again, not unless fate took a hand in things, and the fates had not been kind to her in the last little while. But if they should meet again in the not too distant future, would he remember her?
A blast of wind made the tall pines sway alarmingly, jerking Mahri from her thoughts.
“Whisht!” whispered Dugald, holding up his hand.
Mahri reined in her mount and looked down the slope to the road. “I don’t see anything,” she said.
“They’ve taken the barriers away. There’s no a policeman in sight.”
“That’s good for us, isn’t it?”
“Let’s find out.”
 
 
They came to a row of houses just off the main thor oughfare. It was too small to be a village but, naturally, it boasted an alehouse. To Mahri’s surprise, the taproom was doing a brisk business, and she wondered where all these well-dressed men had come from.
“Policemen,” Dugald observed under his breath. “I’d venture that they were manning the roadblocks, and now they’re off duty. Ah, there’s someone I know. Stay close by me, and not a word out of ye, mind.”
He ordered two dinners and one tankard of ale to go with them, then he directed Mahri to a small table and told her to wait. She watched as he approached the bar counter and tapped one of the customers on the shoulder. The stranger was all smiles and thumped Dugald on the back.
Mahri’s dinner arrived, the ubiquitous Scotch broth and a slice of meat pie. She was so hungry that even if a fire had broken out, she would not have left the table until she had consumed every bite.
Snatches of conversation reached her. Balmoral was mentioned, but the talk was mostly of the weather. It had been a scorching month except for the last few days, and now some of the patrons were worried. The older men talked of the great flood and how it had washed away their homes and livelihood. The younger men listened respectfully, but Mahri could tell that they weren’t really interested.
A few moments after Dugald returned, his piping-hot dinner was brought to their table. “Here’s how things stand,” he said. “There are no roadblocks because the Hepburn has been taken into custody. It was him they was after. Seems like the policeman in charge at Balmoral got himself stabbed in the back, and there’s a witness says the Hepburn brothers did it. They’re both locked up at the castle.”
Mahri’s mind was reeling.
“Did ye hear me? I think we may be in the clear.”
She put down her knife and fork. “When did this happen? When was the man killed?”
“Not long after the guests were rounded up for questioning.”
“It’s impossible. We know it can’t be true. They were following us. They couldn’t have murdered anyone.”
Dugald’s big hand covered hers, and he squeezed hard. “Get a grip on yerself, lass. Pick up your knife and fork and eat your dinner. Dinna draw attention to yerself.” When she obeyed him, he went on, “They could have murdered the man before they came after us.”
“You don’t believe that!”
“I don’t know the man, only what you’ve told me about him. And charming rogues have been known to turn out to be murderers.”
“Well, I know him.” Though her voice was low, it quivered with indignation. “He would never stab anyone in the back. Who says he did?”
Dugald took a long draught of his ale before he answered her. “No one knows, or if they do, they’re not saying.”
“Ronald Ramsey,” she said, snorting derisively.
“We don’t know that.”
“Well, it wasn’t Hepburn who stabbed that man. I’d stake my life on it.”
There was a protracted silence. Finally, Dugald sighed. “So that’s the way of it, is it.” It was a statement, not a question.
Mahri huffed. “It’s not what you think. Dugald, he would not have come to Ramsey’s notice if it hadn’t been for me. I don’t know why Ramsey would kill that policeman, but if he thinks I’ll stand aside and let Hepburn take the blame for it, he’s very much mistaken.”
“Lass, you’re jumping to conclusions. No one has accused Ramsey of killing the policeman.”
Mahri’s chin jutted. “I’m saying it.”
Dugald’s bushy brows rose. “Even if were true, what can you do?”
“I’ll go to the castle and tell them some story or other that will convince them to let Hepburn go. I’ll tell them we had a lovers’ tryst, and he was with me when the other man was killed.” She shook her head. “I’ll think of something.”
“It’s not as easy as you think.” His eyes flicked to the policeman he’d spoken to earlier. “From what I heard, Hepburn has made a powerful enemy at the castle, someone in command who has been waiting for his chance to discredit him.”
She added glumly, “And Ramsey has powerful friends in the area. Oh, Dugald, what are we going to do?”
“We’re going to eat our dinner, then we’ll talk.”
Mahri looked down at her plate. The succulent meat pie did not begin to tempt her, but to please Dugald, she speared a morsel and popped it into her mouth.